


Complete You

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Season Four Premiere Flashfic [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, But he sorts it out, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, John is a Bit Not Good, Post series 4, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexuality Issues, Spoilers, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9371831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: John’s not happy with where the writers left his favourite ship.





	

Sherlock was looking much better when John came in to Baker Street for his shift the next morning; the pained stiffness to his body was gone and his energy seemed to be back. He’d obviously got a good night’s sleep. Hopefully that meant they were through the worst of the withdrawal. Now it was just getting through the cravings. But there was something else, and John wanted to make sure that amongst all the rest of the... things... that had been said, Sherlock didn’t let it fall by the wayside.

“Have you texted her?” asked John.

“Oh, John, good!" he cried. "We’ve got a new case, a good one! Newlyweds have a honeymoon at an island resort: sweet secluded huts, gourmet food, day trips, cocktails on the beach, massages, the works—and yet, when the couple tried to go back the next year for their anniversary, the place has _never existed_ ….”

John sighed. Another time, perhaps.

* * *

“Have you texted her?” John asked again, when Sherlock came back in the door of the half-renovated Baker Street, carrying a duffel bag.

“Not now, John,” he said, and unloaded his violin from the bag, putting it away before disappearing into his room to close the door.

Fair enough.

* * *

“Sherlock, have you texted her yet?” asked John, when Sherlock was between cases.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Sherlock, looking up from his microscope to pull a tub of tongues towards him and paring a few thin slices off the surface with a scalpel. “I’m _busy_.”

“Dada! Ba!” Rosie reminded John from his hip, and John smiled at her, continuing his interrupted journey towards bath and bedtime.

* * *

“So,” said John, looking up from the paper. He was sitting in his chair, across from Sherlock, who was lying flat on the couch. There was no case on, but as yet no experiments to fill the void, and Rosie was in daycare all day. He had no excuse not to _listen_. “Did you ever text her?”

“Text who—oh,” he snorted. “No, of course not.”

“No?” asked John. “You should.”

Sherlock turned his head slowly, to look at John. “You really think so,” he said.

“I really think so,” agreed John. “You’ll never know how it would go, unless you do. Doesn’t that bother you? And putting it off….” He bit his lip. “I wasted so much time with her, Sherlock. Every day, I wish I’d walked up to her that very first day I saw her and taken her in my arms—”

Sherlock snorted. “Her reaction to that may have adversely affected your ability to conceive Rosie.“

John laughed, too, imagining it. “Um. Yeah, probably. But I wish, I guess I wish I’d used used every second I had more wisely.”

Sherlock stared at him intently.  

After a moment, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his phone—then tossed it across the room at John, who flailed a bit at the unexpected projectile, but caught it successfully.

By the time John had managed not to drop the thing, Sherlock already had his eyes closed, lying still as a corpse on the couch with his fingers steepled under his chin. “ _I’ve changed my mind,_ ” he said aloud. “ _Let’s have dinner._ ”

John stared at Sherlock, and then down at the phone in his hands.

“Are you sending it?” demanded Sherlock. “Have you sent it?”

“Sherlock, I…”

“Come on, John, I obviously need your help to do this. Write the text.”

Carefully, feeling like he was intruding on something terribly private, John found the number, typed in the words, and then paused over the send button.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Sherlock waved one of his hands without opening his eyes. “She’s out there, she likes me, and apparently High Wycombe's better than I can imagine. Send it.”

Feeling an unaccountable sense of foreboding, John did.

Almost instantly, the phone moaned in his hands.

_Why, Sherlock! What a surprise! Is it Christmas already?_

John smiled a bit tightly. He’d never liked the way she spoke to Sherlock. Or anyone. But Sherlock did, and that was what counted.

Dutifully, he read out the message.

“All right, John,” said Sherlock. He sounded indifferent, but he rarely didn’t. “It’s our move: what next?”

“Um,” said John, a bit flustered at being put on the spot. “I don’t know. Do you usually chat? You could chat a bit.”

“Boring,” said Sherlock.

“Well then, something to show her you’re serious about the, um, dinner?”

Sherlock pondered that for a moment before speaking. “ _It could be._ ”

“Oh, nice,” admired John, and typed it in. “You’re not bad at this.”

The phone was silent for a moment before the response came back.

 _Hello, Doctor Watson_. _It’s been too long since we last caught up. Engaging in relationship counselling now?_

John slumped in his chair. “She knows I’m here.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, apparently unsurprised.

The phone gave the pornographic sigh again in his hands, but before John could decide whether he should look at it—obviously his role as intermediary was unnecessary, but she _had_ addressed him—Sherlock spoke.

“Tell her I’ll accept her fee.”

John looked down at the phone.

_Oh, all right. Tell him he’ll owe me a favour. I can’t waive fees for professional services, even for a friend; think of my reputation!_

John grinned. “There you go!” he said triumphantly, and read it aloud. “I told you it’d work out. What about sending back: _I am._ She’ll like that!”

The phone moaned again.

 _I’ve got a joke for you, Doctor Watson_ , it read. _A straight man, a lesbian, and an asexual walk into a bar. Which two of these people do you think should be having sex?_

The smile dropped off John’s face.

 _Which of these people_ , she continued, _has an unfortunate condition which could be fixed if only they were presented with the right man? Or, of course, Woman._

His heart dropped to join it.

_Which of these people needs to have sex in order to validate their relationship with someone they love?_

It dropped further, into his stomach. John began to realise anew why The Woman had had such a reputation for hitting hard, in precisely the right spot.

 _John_ , the next text came. _I’ve been using sex to solve my problems since I was thirteen. I know what people like; I’ve always been able to see it. Is it really such a surprise that the most fulfilling relationship I’ve ever had with a man, is with a man who would never, could never like me for anything other than my mind?_

 _I guess not_ , typed John disconsolately. _Sorry._

_I’m sorry, too. About your wife. You loved her, and I imagine you’d like Sherlock to have what you’ve lost, because you love him too. But he already has exactly what HE likes. You can’t make him fit your box, although he’d probably try for you. He was willing to pretend, if I thought you’d like that; that’s why he let you contact me. But none of us wants that for him._

There was a pause while John stared at the text, feeling like more of an idiot with every moment. Then came another breathy moan.

_You’re welcome. Give him my love, won’t you? Those cheekbones always look their best when I’ve put a flush on them. And tell him he’s taking me to dinner next time I’m in town._

_Um_ , typed John, feeling somewhat more behind than usual. _Thank you. I will._

_Always a pleasure to deal out appropriate punishment to the deserving._

John scowled at the phone for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he looked up at Sherlock, who was still lying motionless on the couch, hands together.

“She, uh…” he said, then cleared his throat. “She sends her love.”

“Mmm?” he said, sounding only mildly interested, but John could see a hint of colour on his cheeks.

“And she says you’re taking her to dinner when she’s in town.”

Sherlock chuckled low in his throat. “Of course I am.”

“I _am_ sorry,” said John. “That was really not good of me. I’d never want you to be anything other than what you are.”

And remembering what Harry had been through in high school, that was a bit of an understatement. He’d thought he was better than that.

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock with another careless gesture of his hand. “I understand, John. It was kindly meant.” Then he finally opened his eyes, turning to let John see the loss vivid within them. “I miss Mary too. And I miss what she gave you. You _were_ … complete, with her. I only wish you’d had more time.”

“Yes,” said John, blinking fast, abruptly overwhelmed by Sherlock’s compassion. “But I’m complete with you, too. And Rosie. And what we have. And….”

He stopped, trying not to glance at her. It wasn’t something they talked about, John’s occasional continued slip-ups out loud. She wasn’t here quite so much anymore, nor was she so outspoken. But this kind of conversation was almost guaranteed to bring her out.

Sometimes when John thought of her, now, the pain was dull, suffused with a kind of nostalgic gratitude for the privilege of having known her at all.

“Ah yes, of course,” said Sherlock. He looked unerringly to the wall beside the mantelpiece, where John’s mind had placed her. “Glad you’re still with us, Mary.”

She smiled back at him fondly.

“Always,” she promised.


End file.
